Future Imperfect
by Last Marauder
Summary: AU, conceived pre-DH. “If Voldemort had never heard of the prophecy, would it have been fulfilled? Would it have meant anything? Of course not! Do you think every prophecy in the Hall of Prophecy has been fulfilled?” -Dumbledore, HBP
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This story was conceived before DH came out, and while I considered re-working it to fit with cannon, I decided against it in the end.

"_If Voldemort had never heard of the prophecy, would it have been fulfilled? Would it have meant anything? Of course not! Do you think every prophecy in the Hall of Prophecy has been fulfilled?"_

_-Dumbledore, HBP_

Remus woke to the faraway sound of a whistling teapot, and the distinctive feeling of something wet and slightly rough against his cheek. Opening his eyes a crack, he noted that the dawn light had barely begun to filter in through the heavy drapes.

"mmph… Padfoot-" He squirmed away and rolled over onto his left side. "Too early…" he mumbled, before burying his head under the duvet. But the black dog was persistent, wriggling his wet nose through the gap Remus had left himself to breathe, his tail beating against the covers with every eager wag.

Eventually, Remus gave in (though his eyes remained determinedly closed), reaching over to stroke the black dog affectionately behind the ear. He noted the change in timbre as the snuffling noise at his ear became a contended sigh. The licking, however, did not stop.

"Mmm," he murmured, rolling over to face Sirius, "alright, you've succeeded in getting me up," –at this Sirius waggled his eyebrows suggestively, which Remus ignored- "now what could possibly be so important to merit waking me at this ungodly hour?"

Sirius propped himself up on one elbow, grinning broadly.

"It's Harry's birthday party today."

"It's 6 o'clock."

"Yeah, well," he stated matter-of-factly, "don't want to be late, do I?"

Remus let out a long sigh of protest, though he couldn't help being endeared by how seriously Sirius took his duties as godfather.

"There's a cup of tea in it for you," Sirius bribed.  
"I think I had something else in mind," Remus murmured, pulling the dark-haired man back down towards him.

---------------

They apparated at the end of the short walkway. Sirius led the way up to the door, and Remus followed closely, presents in hand.

After knocking twice, Sirius raised his voice.

"Hello? Anyone home?"

"Oh, bugger- it's open!" called a woman's voice from somewhere within the depths of the house.

They let themselves in, and followed the voice to the kitchen at the back of the house. The red-haired woman greeted them warmly, though both her arms were occupied with the makings of what looked like a veritable feast.

"Sirius, Remus! So glad you could make it,"

"As though I would miss my own godson's birthday!" Sirius crooned indignantly.

"Lily, you look ravishing, as always," Remus leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks. Lily rolled her eyes in protest, though a half-smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She wore a flour-stained apron over her summery robes, and her hair was done up in a loose bun. A large mixing bowl floated next to her, a wooden spoon tirelessly stirring its chocolatey contents.

"Anything we can do to assist you, Miss Evans- oh excuse me, _Mrs._ Potter," Sirius corrected himself, with exaggerated formality. Lily smiled.

"James is through the back, setting up out there, why don't you go see if he needs any help?"

Knowing Remus was better suited to tasks involving chocolate, she added, "Remus, why don't you stay on a minute and give me a hand with this cake?"

-----------------------

Two hours later, Harry sat cross-legged on the lawn, surrounded by a circle of guests. Around him, the lawn was strewn with wrapping paper, ribbons, and crumbs of chocolate cake. Directly in front of him was a large bronze cage housing a majestic white snowy owl.

"She's beautiful, mum!"

Lily smiled warmly.

"Well, your father and I thought it would be nice for you to have your own owl at Hogwarts- this way you can always be in touch with us"

"What are you going to call her, Harry?" asked Peter.

"Not sure yet," said Harry, thoughtfully. "Maybe 'Hedwig'," he added, "it's a name I saw in A History of Magic".

"I think that's a lovely name, lad," said Remus, fondly ruffling the boy's hair.

There was just one gift left to open- his godfather's. Harry had deliberately saved his gift for last. He tore hastily at the paper.

"One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, gee, thanks Sirius."

"Well, that's one less thing you'll have to buy at Flourish and Blotts tomorrow!"

"How very practical of you, Sirius," commended Lily, a note of suspicion in her voice. Sirius's eyes twinkled.

"Oh, hang on a minute Harry, here's another one I forgot to give you."

Sirius pulled a final book-shaped package from behind his back and handed it off to Harry with exaggerated pomp.

"Er.. thanks," grinned Harry as genuinely as he could.

"Well, go on, lad, open it!"

The paper had been charmed to disguise the shape of the object inside, and Harry's eyes widened in surprised delight as they glimpsed the package's much larger, significantly more broom-shaped contents.

"A Nimbus 2000! You didn't!"

James was now perched on the edge of his seat, and Remus could not decide whether father or son looked more animated.

"I did. You're getting to be a right good Quidditch player, just like your old man, and with a broom like that, they'll be begging you to join the house team within a week."

"First years aren't allowed brooms," interjected Lily, arching her eyebrows.

"You don't say! Lily, I am all astonishment."

---------------------------

The evening's last light was fading when Lily finally called an end to the festivities.

Most of the guests had long since gone, except for Neville Longbottom, who was to stay the night and accompany them to Diagon Alley the next morning. He was busy pouring over Harry's new copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, which Harry himself had long since abandoned in favour of the broom. Peter, who had a soft spot for those whose talents were less flagrant than a knack for Quidditch, sat with him, listening indulgently to his exclamations of fascination.

"All right, boys, pack it up. You've got a big day tomorrow."

"Please, mum? Just one more game!"

"Come on Lily love, one game won't hurt- let the lad get a feel for his new broom." James wasn't helping the situation.

"Sweetheart, it's late, and we had said…I really wish you wouldn't…Remus-" she turned to him for help, exasperated.

Remus glanced back towards the three figures on the lawn. James and Sirius stood on either side of Harry, mirroring his expression with their best impressions of wide-eyed innocence. Remus shrugged apologetically, "Lily, my dear, I'm afraid it looks as though we're outnumbered".

The snitch had barely been released when a blinding flash of light cut through the dusk. Startled, they turned to see a haggard-looking witch standing in the vegetable patch. She could not have been past her early thirties, but she had a fevered manner which lent years to her appearance. Her eyes were wide with desperation, and her bushy brown hair haloed around her, giving her the air of some slightly insane archangel.

"No!" she gasped, raising a hand to her temple, "...not far enough…"

The witch collapsed, her legs simply giving way beneath her in exhaustion.

Remus was the closest, and was at her side in seconds, kneeling over her, a hand at her throat checking her pulse.

Her eyes shot open. She grasped hold of his wrist, and he found himself surprised at her strength.

"Remus-" she murmured, her eyes straining to focus.

He felt the warmth drain from his body.

"Do I know you?"

"… not yet," her voice was barely above a whisper.

"But I need… need your help. This is wrong. All of it. It's not the way it's supposed to be."

With that, Hermione lost consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

_Three weeks ago, __fourteen years later._

--------------------

Hermione began to panic. They were closing in on her. An icy chill ran up her spine, and she felt the hard point of her wand digging into her palm as she tried to curb the terror rising like bile in her throat. She heard Bellatrix's triumphant shriek behind her, then the sickening crunch of bone. She turned to see Ginny flat on the ground to her right, and felt her stomach lurch as she noted the unnatural angle of her left leg. She couldn't stop to check if she was breathing.

She ran blindly, madly, forgetting the zig-zag pattern, all the drills.

A stray curse sent clumps of moss flying as it ricocheted off the marble façade of the Ravenclaw Mausoleum. For an instant she saw their hooded faces, stark silhouettes made featureless in the blue afterglow of the Discutio hex. The headstone to her right erupted in sparks, and she was sitting on her father's shoulders on Guy Fawkes' day, watching the fireworks at Burchetts Green. The blue ones were always her favourite. They were the hardest to make, he had told her, because they needed to burn at such a low tempera-

_No_. She had to stay rational. It was all she had.

She felt a strange sensation, and her stomach churned as she realized she was flying. No- not flying- falling. _Tripping over a bloody sodding tree root,_ she thought bitterly. As she landed heavily on the mossy earth, she finally caught sight of Harry, looking in no better shape than she or Ginny.

He looked as though he could barely lift his head from the ground without pain, and Hermione could see through his torn and bloodied robes that his wand arm sported a nasty looking gash. Still, he had his wand raised, and a look of hard determination gleamed in his green eyes. From the wand's tip a silver filament stretched out, through the darkness and the fog, locking it to another, beads of energy pulsating along its length with every breath Harry drew through gritted teeth.

It was then that she saw the eyes – those horrifying reptilian eyes – gleaming … and the thin, sickly lips, stretched into a hideous mock-grin across the pallid skull of a face, moving almost imperceptibly, whispering… whispering what? She strained to make out the sounds, barely audible amidst the din of the fray raging about them.

Harry- she had to reach him… had to… had to warn him, somehow…

A sudden blinding flash of light drove all thought from her mind.

"HARRY!"

Hermione woke with a start. She sat up, heart pounding and head reeling from the force of her vision. She glanced automatically at the figure beside her, holding herself still for an eternity of seconds before noting the gentle rise and fall of covers and allowing herself to breathe. She wiped the sweat from her brow, and, bringing two fingers to her throat to check her pulse, waited for her breathing to return to normal.

When Ron spoke, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Pardon?" she managed, when she had caught her breath for the second time

"I said, are you alright," he asked, his voice heavy with sleep and concern. He propped himself up on one elbow.

"I'm fine… I'm fine." She shook her head. "Aside from my husband startling me half to death," she continued, with forced mirth.

"You don't look fine," he probed, placing a hand on her shoulder tenderly.

Hermione rubbed her eyes.

"It was just a bad dream, that's all," she sighed, in a tone that told him she didn't want to talk about it.

"Do you want me to make you some warm milk?"

"No, no… I'll get some myself- you get back to sleep."

"You sure?"

She smiled weakly, squeezing his hand gently with hers.

"Of course."

Hesitantly, he eased himself back down onto the pillow, as Hermione slipped out of bed and headed towards the kitchen.

"Accio mug," she murmured absently, and with a few flicks of her wand, poured and heated the milk. She stood a long time by the kitchen window, gazing out at the snowy garden. With a slight shiver, she wrapped her robe tighter around her. She felt decidedly unsettled.

This was silly. She needed to get some rest. The Ministry Christmas party was tomorrow, and Merlin knew she would need all her strength for that.

--------------------

"Granger, isn't it?" the thick-set man leaned in dangerously close to greet her, his hand seeming to engulf her entire forearm. She smelled alcohol on his breath, and by her reckoning, something much stronger than the Ministry-provided punch. "Cormac McLaggen, Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"Hermione Granger-_Weasley_," she answered, diplomatically disengaging her arm, "Muggle Relations." Hermione peered desperately around the room. Where had Ron gotten to?

"These office dos are so dull," he commented, clearly failing to interpret her less than subtle body language, "but you should stop by my flat in Leicester afterwards- a few of us are throwing a _real_ party."

Hermione fought hard against the look of disgust forming on her face, and, pretending to catch someone's eye across the room, excused herself and made a beeline for the refreshments table.

"Hermione?"

She gave a little gasp, spilling her newly poured punch onto the tablecloth, which instantly absorbed the stain and sprouted a doily in its place.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," the handsome wizard began, smiling apologetically.

"Oh, Cedric!" She gave a relieved smile. "No, I'm sorry, I've been a little… jumpy today. How've you been?"

As he spoke, she finally caught sight of Ron a short way off, engaged in conversation with Romilda Malfoy. By the look on his face, he might as well have been talking to a blast-ended skrewt. She thought momentarily about rescuing him, but decided against it. _Serves him right_, she thought_, for leaving me trapped with McLaggen_.

"Do you still speak to Krum?" he continued.  
"Viktor? No, I haven't heard from him in ages, actually. We sort of grew apart, after…" She trailed off, with a significant glance toward the corner where Romilda had Ron cornered.

"Say no more," he said with a laugh.

They continued to talk, pleasantries mostly, but it _was_ nice to catch up with him. Apart from Ron and Ginny, she hadn't really kept in touch with anyone from Hogwarts over the last few years.

But something was off. She couldn't quite put her finger on it

They had been reminiscing about the tournament. The night of the Yule Ball, when the Champions had thrown their own private party afterwards- Ron had been mad with jealousy. Cedric, of course, had been the Hogwarts Champion. And he had won, hadn't he? And donated most of his prize money to St. Mungo's, if she remembered correctly- Hufflepuff through and through.

But no, there was something else… hadn't Harry? Of course not, that was silly, Harry hadn't entered his name, none of them had; they were too young, obviously.

She was becoming confused.

Looking at Cedric, she was suddenly gripped with an intense, inexplicable sadness.

Hermione set her drink down.

"Well!" she began brightly, mentally shaking herself, "if you'll excuse me, I think I'd best rejoin my husband before the awards begin."

"Of course." He smiled genuinely. "You must floo me sometime though; we should all meet up for a drink- get a few of the old faces together again, eh?"

"Yes, yes of course, lovely." She smiled, distracted but sincere.

Cedric watched her go, sporting the look of confused geniality that suited him best.

She found Ron by the refreshments table, about to reload his plate with fresh pumpkin pasties. She touched him gently on the arm, and he opened his mouth to speak, but, seeing her face, thought better of it. She glanced about for a secluded corner. Finding none, she took him by the elbow and steered him back the way they had come, into the now relatively unpopulated antechamber. On the tapestry above them, a pixie peered out at them from her embroidered grove, her electric blue wings glinting in the silken moonlight.

"Can we leave soon?"

"Funny, this conversation usually goes the other way around." He smirked quizzically.

"Please?" It was her tone, more than her words, which made him take note. He scanned her dark eyes with concern.

"You're not well."

"I- I didn't sleep well last night."

"Your dream?"

She nodded reluctantly.

"It was about Harry," she began, her eyes not quite meeting his.

Exhaling slowly, Ron reached out and gathered her into his arms. She leaned against his shoulder, her eyes open, fixing her gaze on the pixie in the tapestry.

"Oh, sweetheart." He rubbed her back in slow, deep circles.

"Ron?"

She broke free, pulling back to look at him again, more earnestly. He said nothing. If there was one thing he had learned about his wife over the years, it was that she didn't like to be prodded. If she had something to say, you could be sure you'd hear about it.

"There's something else." She paused to wet her lips, gathering her courage. "This wasn't the first time."

Once she had broken the ice the words poured out quickly and relentlessly, and Ron had to strain to keep up.

"I- I've been having them for months, but they've never been this bad- it was horrible, Ron! Ginny was hurt and I was so scared for you – Merlin knows where you were – and Harry-" she faltered, her voice hitching, "we were fighting for our lives. And every time I wake up, Ron, you can't imagine- I can't shake that feeling! It's not like any dream I've had before- when I'm there, it's _real._"

"Why didn't you tell me?" he said, finally.

"I don't know… You- you were doing so _well_, Ron! You're happy- _we're_ happy- I suppose I didn't want to…"

"To burden me?"

"I know how cliché that sounds-"

"You thought that if you told me, I would stop being happy?"

"I thought that if I told you, it would bring it all back again, and you wouldn't be able to keep moving on."

"Hermione, listen to me." He held her gently by the shoulders, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Harry was my friend- he was _our_ friend. Moving on doesn't mean we stop thinking about him. We're never going to stop thinking about him. And we owe it to each other – and to him – to talk about it."

Hermione smiled weakly at her husband. Trust him to come out with something like that- trust him to say the exact bloody right thing at exactly the right time.

"Honestly, Hermione, sometimes you really are the thickest smart person I know."

And then ruin it.

"Well I love you too, Ronald."

"Do you want to leave?"

She let out a slow, ragged breath. "No," she sighed, "I'm sorry. I'll be alright. Let's stay for the Orders of Merlin".

He squeezed her hand and led her back into the main ballroom.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. Weren't these places supposed to have couches? _Right, and old bespectacled men smoking cigars_, she thought wryly. Even she wasn't immune to wizard preconceptions about Muggles, she supposed. She did her best to banish them from her mind, and tried to focus more intently on the task at hand. Why was she here?

To be honest, when Ron had first suggested the idea, she hadn't been too keen on it. Could she be more precise? Alright, fine, she had thought it was ludicrous. Ludicrous, and a complete overreaction. At first.

It had all started with the dreams. Rather, with her telling him about the dreams. He had suggested that she had been working too hard, that she hadn't really allowed herself to grieve properly, that she had buried herself in her work to avoid dealing with it.

(In fact, he had suggested that the new Muggle memory-modifying jinx she had been working on had been too powerful, too experimental. That it had backfired, somehow. But of course she didn't say any of this.)

Was there any truth to this? Well, she supposed that she did have a tendency to turn to books when emotions weren't suiting her. Why? Books, equations, (spells), came naturally to her. Speaking about her feelings didn't. She was the girl who had thrown things (conjured canaries) at the boy she loved when he went out with another girl because she couldn't tell him how she felt. Well, she had gotten her point across; she had married him, after all. Well, yes, she was well aware that perhaps it wasn't the most effective way. But she supposed that perhaps she hadn't entirely grown out of it, which was why she was somewhat uncomfortable with _this_ particular situation.

Well, yes, he had convinced her, in the end. He had been so genuinely concerned for her.

_("I am not addled!" She could have stamped her foot._

_He had paused, then, softening. "Well, then…" he had started, "maybe you should see a…a psycholographer".)_

She had been so surprised at his suggestion, at its sincerity and innocence. (She hadn't even bothered to correct him).

And the dreams, well, they were becoming slightly troublesome. It was bad enough waking up night after night in cold sweats from the images she had seen. But lately- they weren't leaving her after her morning tea. The images floated around her all day, popping up unexpectedly from time to time. She was having trouble keeping things straight.

Oh, silly things, really. The other day she could have sworn Harry had been the school (Triwizard) football champion.

"Tell me about Harry," came the gentle probe.

She supposed she had known it would come to this. Where to begin? He had been her best friend. The three of them, with Ron, had been inseparable at school…

They arrived, eventually, at the real crux. It had been an aneurism. An infarction of the carotid artery. A stupid, pointless death. Actually, Ron had had more trouble with it at first.

(_"It's not a Muggle disease, Ronald, it's a human disease"_)

And Ginny, well, of course it had been hard on her, but she had borne it well. She had drawn it about herself, her own imperturbable cloak.

And time had passed.

She and Ron had learned to laugh again; their marriage, and their friendship, had burgeoned with new life as the weight of grief gradually lifted.

And yet the dreams. They were mainly about Harry- he wasn't always present, but he was somehow central to all of it. There was a war on. They had lost many friends, were in danger of losing many more by the second. And Harry was the target.

The words came more easily than she had expected, and Hermione found herself shocked at her own forthcoming. Though she had come reluctantly, she was equally surprised to find the hour was up already. The fact that the session ended with _homework_ made her feel almost eager to return.

"I'd like you to explore this fantasy," the auburn-haired woman instructed, near the end of the session. "See where it leads you."

"You mean the dreams? Excuse me, but isn't that what we're trying to get rid of?"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple. There are many different theories to explain the meaning of dreams. Some people believe that dreams are simply the brain's way of sorting out clutter- a mishmash, if you will, of conscious events, thoughts, and feelings. Many others, however, believe that dreams can give us important insight into the _sub_conscious. Some believe that by exploring our dreams, we can learn a great deal about ourselves- including those aspects which we may not otherwise be open to."

"Like what?"

"Well, some psychologists have theorized that dreams may be a harmless way of fulfilling subconscious desires that are unattainable in waking life. In your case, however, these fantasies have intruded into your waking world."

"What does that mean?"

"It might mean that the substitute is no longer sufficient. In short - your subconscious wants you to know something."

Hermione was on the edge of her seat. A lot of it was bollocks, to be sure. She was sure she had heard Trelawney spew out something of the like in the few short weeks she had bothered with Divination. But she couldn't help but be fascinated! And this woman was a Muggle scientist, she did make it all sound very credible, and not a word was mentioned about prophecy, or

_Born as the seventh month dies… And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live-_

"Hermione, are you alright?"  
Without realizing it, she had lapsed again. Her hands felt cold and clammy, but she felt the dizzying confusion clearing from her now racing mind. She _would_ explore this. Though perhaps not in an entirely Muggle way.

"Yes, yes, fine, thank you, Dr. Morgan. I think all the self-exploration has left me a bit… tired. I'll do what you suggested, and I'll let you know how it goes."

She managed to walk calmly out of the reception area and down the stairs, and to hold the door for an elderly Muggle man, but once outside she all but broke into a run, barely avoiding splinching herself as she disapparated from the alleyway down the street.

Hermione apparated onto a quiet, snow-muffled street, at the foot of the path leading up to a modest cottage. A group of Muggle children played in the yard across the road, but, engrossed with their half-constructed snowman, they hadn't noticed her appearance. Once inside, she hung her overcoat on the hook, and, shivering, hurried upstairs to draw herself a bath. It was an old source of comfort, one she had inherited, she supposed, from her mother.

The bath itself had been a gift from Ron when they had first moved in to the house, and while it may not have been as efficient as Aguamenti, they both agreed it had considerably more charm. The half dozen smaller taps framing the center faucet, however, were of more recent addition- Ron seemed to have inherited his father's fascination with 'improving' Muggle technology. Hermione turned two of these smaller taps now, and waited as pale green and mauve bubbles surfaced, deeply inhaling the scents of lavender and jasmine they released.

She placed her carefully folded Muggle clothes on a chair beside the bath, and touched one tentative toe to the surface of the water. Perfect.

"Nox," she sighed, sliding herself slowly into the bubbly water.

She touched the tip of her wand to her forehead experimentally. The first flash was intense and unfocused- her mother's spice rack, organized alphabetically, and the smell of frying onions.

She drew a slow breath, and did her best to refocus her energies.

"Memoria Redigo," she tried, tentatively. A beastly three-headed dog swam momentarily in her mind's eye before dissolving into a nagging sense of deja-vu.

"Well, it's a start," she mused.

"Memoria Redigo!" This time her full mental weight was behind the words.

The dog was back, though he seemed to be asleep, now, and as he slept she lowered herself through a trapdoor, her heart in her throat, vaguely aware through her fear of a harp-spun lullaby.

The visions came readily and smoothly now, and after some practice Hermione found she could lie back and let them play out in her mind's eye, flickering across her mental canvas like shadows in candlelight.

She tried her best to steer the visions towards the mausoleum, the forest floor. What she got was Harry. His face swam in front of her as she had first seen it, rosy cheeked and well-fed, the day they met on the Hogwarts express.

But now his face was thinner – he held a hand to his scarred forehead, she was concerned.

She was a spectator as he soared high above the Quidditch pitch on his Firebolt, a 14th birthday present from his parents.

She rushed to him as he plummeted to the earth, the happiness and hope sucked from him by the horrible hooded creatures…

The three of them cheered as Cedric Diggory, the Hogwarts Champion, emerged triumphant, hoisting the Triwizard cup.

And now, tears streamed down her face as Harry clutched Cedric's lifeless body at the entrance of the maze.

They stood together in a strange, high-ceilinged chamber, filled to the rafters with dusty glass orbs – Ron called to them – this one had Harry's name on it-

Each scene came fast upon the heels of the last; their speed was increasing – a broken Muggle movie reel spinning out of control.

A birthday party – a huge and terrifying snake – treading on Viktor's toes at the Yule ball – a flowered teacup – a defaced potions book – Harry's funeral – no, not his, he was there, next to Ginny, but tears were falling thick and hot from her eyes because Dumbledore-

"Damn it!" Her eyes flung open as she bolted upright, sending ripples of soapy water sloshing onto the tile. Pigwidgeon, perched on the chair beside her, trilled indignantly. She remembered each scene vividly, and yet… how could they all be real? She knew Harry was dead. And she knew with as much certainty that he was _supposed_ to be alive. Alive, and fighting for his life – for all their lives. She knew that she had had tea with Lily last week, just as she knew that they had never met, that Mrs. Potter had died at the hands of the most terrible wizard in recorded history.

"This is too confusing!" Hermione held a hand to her forehead, exasperated. "I can't sort it out! I need a way to… separate them, somehow. To figure out what's real- no- to figure out which real is the _proper_ real."

The tiny bird cocked his head inquisitively.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not crazy, I know it! And I am _not_ talking to myself- I'm talking to my owl."

Standing up briskly from her bath, Hermione muttered a drying spell, and pulled her robe around her.

"Let's see… two realities, different events…" She began pacing the length of the bathroom. "I need a way to… check my facts, somehow. The library will have books on the war… but the other one… how can I verify something that doesn't exist outside my own mind?"

"That's it! Pig, you're an angel." She all but sprinted off in the direction of her study, leaving the small bird twittering his confusion.


	4. Chapter 4

She met Ron on the landing with a collision that could've bowled over a Hippogriff.

"So, er… how was the appointment, then?" He asked, bracing himself for an annoyed tirade.

"Brilliant!"

"Listen, I know it was daft of me to suggest it, and you needn't- er- hang on- what?"

"It was brilliant. Very helpful. Thanks so much, love." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, before turning back in the direction of her study. She paused a moment at the door.

"Listen, can I use your spare Pensieve?"

"Of course love- something the matter with yours?"

"No, no- I could use the extra space, though- I've got some homework for Dr. Morgan I want to get started on."

"Homework! Blimey…" Ron chuckled, "I can see why you liked her so much."

Hours later, Hermione's supper was getting cold. Ron padded up the stairs, careful not to upset the contents of his tray. Leaving it afloat momentarily in midair, he knocked tentatively at the door. When he received no answer, he opened it a crack. His wife sat at her desk amid a sea of parchment and reference books. Some were familiar to him – their History of Magic textbook, a few Ministry-issue readers on basic defensive magic – but other, more sinister looking tomes looked as though they had been lifted from the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. On the corner of the desk sat Hermione's Pensieve, the brimming surface positively seething with silvery filaments. His own lay on the windowsill not far behind. She seemed at the moment, however, to be thoroughly immersed in the scroll lying open in front of her, which was periodically emitting strange bursts of energy.

"What's all this?" he asked, attempting to sweep away the tiny points of light which hovered about the room, jumping from book to book. Hermione scarcely looked up from her scroll.

"Oh, just a little cross-referencing charm I threw together," she offered nonchalantly.

"Cross-referencing char- Hermione, you will never cease to amaze me." Ron's brow furrowed in fond bemusement. He leaned over her chair to embed a tender kiss in the thick curls at the crown of her head.

"I brought your supper."

"Oh! What time is- oh, Ron, I'm so sorry, it must have slipped my mind-"

"Never mind, love, it's nice to see you back to your old self again- what is it you're so hard at work on?"

"Ronald, do you love me?"

"Hermione! How can you even ask that? I've just brought you Rarebit, haven't I?"

Hermione smiled. Even magically reheated, it did smell good.

"Seriously, Ron, do you… do you trust me?"

"'Course I do," he started, warily, "what's all this about?"

"I think the timeline's been tampered with."

Ron's brow arched involuntarily. True to his word, though, he didn't say anything. He swallowed, and looked at her to continue.

She explained about the session, about the memory spell she had tried in the bath.

"I don't think they were dreams at all- they were _memories_! So I've used the Pensieves to try and sort them out," she concluded. "I think I've got it worked out, now. Well, I can remember everything the way it really happ-" She stopped herself – this was the only reality he knew. "That is," she continued, "I can remember everything that happened in… the other one."

"The other timeline."

"Right."

"And who, exactly, is behind this…this tampering?"

"Voldemort."

Ron flinched. He had grown up fearing the famous dark wizard, as had so many witches and wizards of his generation.

"Harry asked us to use his name, Ron."

She explained about the prophecy, about Voldemort murdering Lily and James, and turning his wand on their infant son. Harry was the Chosen One, she explained; it was on him to defeat Voldemort, and they had sworn to help him. She came to the crux of it.

"I don't think Harry's death was natural, Ron. I think Voldemort killed him."

Ron swallowed. He stood in silence a moment, his face pale.

"But, he's gone," he uttered finally. "Defeated, ages ago! I was just a kid, but Charlie remembers it; Dad took him to the parade in London-"

"That's just it, Ron, I don't think he _is_ gone, not really! Think about it. Vol – fine, _You-Know-Who_, then – was the most powerful, most evil wizard in history! Worse than Salazar Slytherin, worse than Grindelwald. And he was just reaching the height of his power! He had followers all over the country, all over Europe! Where did he go, Ron? Not Azkaban! Where's his body?"

"I… the Ministry…"

"Exactly!" She cut across him. "The Ministry! They're tangled up in this somehow, I'm sure of it."

"Hermione, what you're talking about… it's treason."

"I'm talking about _facts_, Ronald!" Her palm smacked against the open parchment, sending a flutter of sparks into the air.

She held up a Daily Prophet; it looked 20 years old, at least.

"_Victory! You-Know-Who Defeated in Brilliant Ministry Plan,"_ it announced. Millicent Bagnold, the then-Minister for Magic, and her Chief Investigator Cornelius Fudge beamed up at him from the faded front-page.

"I've read this cover-to-cover, and every issue for a month afterwards, and there's nothing in it but generalities! In every article, they hail Fudge for his bravery and fortitude, and make vague references to this cunning, top-secret plan of his. If it was such a brilliant victory, where are the details? Who fought in that battle? I can bet you it wasn't Fudge!"

"And the history books are no better," she continued. She presented him with fact after fact, inconsistency after inconsistency, referring often to the parchment in front of her. Ron was silent for a moment, taking it all in.

"If what you're saying is true, if V-vo-" he stuttered. "If You-Know-Who isn't gone, what's he been up to? If he was so bent on killing Harry, why did he sit around twiddling his fingers for 23 years? And why the…_aneurysm,"_ he pronounced carefully. "Why didn't he just use a curse?"

"I-" Hermione was caught of guard by this. "I don't know," she admitted. Her brow furrowed in thought. "But last time," she mused, "when he tried to kill Harry in… in the other one, the magic was so powerful that it nearly killed him! They all thought he was dead, too, no-one knew about the Horcruxes-"

"The what?"

"I-" This was going to take far too long to explain. "Never mind about that. The point is, they thought he was dead until he turned up at Hogwarts in first year and tried to steal the Philosopher's stone!"

Ron gaped. "He was at HOGWARTS?"

Hermione sighed. She was over the biggest hurdle: she'd told him. But if she'd thought the next part would be easy…

Over the next hour or so, she filled him in as best she could with what she could remember. They had moved the conversation down to the lounge; they sat on the settee, a pot of tea steeping on the coffee table.

"The thing is, though," she was saying, "I've no idea about any of the _history_. I only know what I saw, or else what Harry told me. I can't ask anyone, and there obviously aren't any books about it in the library…" She trailed off. "Without that, I've no way of knowing when exactly things went wrong – split off, I mean. I wouldn't know where to start."

"So how do we stop it?" he asked.

"So, you believe me, then?" Relief flooded her face.

Ron's brow furrowed. The story sounded mental. Dark wizards, time travel – she talked of these things like they were old hat. It was not at all the sort of thing he could believe in. But looking into her dark eyes – her entirely focused, rational, distinctly un-addled eyes – he found that he could believe _her_.

"Yeah. Yeah I do. What's next?"

**Author's note:** Thank you so much for your reviews, and your patience! I know updates have been slow (that'll teach me to start a multi-chapter time travel AU while writing a thesis…) but I promise I won't let this bunny die. I think bottlebrush may have caught me in a Flint about Hermione's age though :( - apologies.


	5. Chapter 5

Luna Lovegood was not asleep. She had been in bed, the new issue of Magical Creatures Monthly on her lap, when it had occurred to her to put on a pot of Gurdyroot tea. One would want tea on a night like this. She slipped into her bright yellow housecoat and fuzziest slippers, and padded down the stairs to the kitchen. Something in the air had shifted, she mused, as she poured the boiling water over the roots. She arranged a few biscuits on a plate, for good measure, then went to answer the door.

Ron started as the door swung inwards with his hand still on the knocker.

"Oh, hello," Luna answered in her sing-song way. She wore her blonde hair in two loose plaits. She did not look surprised to see them.

She ushered them into an odd trapezoidal sitting room, which held slightly too much furniture for a room of its shape and size. It reminded Hermione of the Gryffindor common room, with its mismatched armchairs, cozy in its disarray. Hermione chose a Louis XIV Bergère, Ron a piano stool.

"It's good of you to have us, Luna." Hermione's eyes darted uncomfortably around the room, unsure of where to settle. For all Luna knew, they hadn't spoken properly in years, save small talk at a few Ministry functions, and even at Hogwarts they had never been close. Hermione had no way of knowing that this woman would even believe her, let alone be able to help. But Luna had once fought at her side, had chosen the right path over the easy one, had helped knit her bones back together the night they destroyed Helga Hufflepuff's cup. That bond meant something, whichever reality it existed in. All the same, it had been an impossibly long night, and she grew weary at the prospect of explaining everything from the beginning.

"Not at all," Luna crooned. "I assume this is about the timeline?"

The Department of Mysteries had begun to suspect that something may be out of kilter a few years ago, but even with the top Unspeakables working 'round the clock, they had arrived at no explanations. The 'temporal hiccup', as it had been dubbed, had even the department's best minds stumped. Luna herself, though only a junior member of the department, was known as something of a prodigy in temporal theory, and had been brought in to work on the problem.

As inhabitants of the time continuum, she had explained to the Minister's cabinet, they had no way of knowing what had been changed. Ordinarily, of course, this wouldn't pose a problem. The continuum shifted trillions of times a microsecond, each decision and whim of every witch, wizard, Muggle, and Flobberworm swinging it wildly in all directions. Would Mrs. Jones eat oatmeal for breakfast today? Yes! And _bang!_ The doors to myriad possible worlds slammed shut. Egg on toast, kippers, beans and sausage; none of these were to be had today. The world ticked on, no-one the wiser to what might have been had she instead smeared marmalade on a muffin.

In this case, though, they were aware. Maddeningly, each of their best instruments, calibrated and recalibrated for the thousand-and-fourth time, registered a fraction of a unit off.

The mystery, then, was not so much why the timeline had changed, but _why they could tell_. The best her team could surmise was that when this particular variation in the continuum had occurred, something, however minute, had been left out of the change.

"Until tonight, I had no idea what that might be," Luna continued, "but I had a funny feeling this evening…and when you showed up, I had a feeling you might have picked up on something as well."

Hermione retold a hurried version of the events of the past few weeks, grateful for Luna's open face and unabashed acceptance of impossible truths.

"I know it's difficult to believe- I have no way of proving that these memories are anything more than dreams," she continued, frustrated.

"I have an idea." Luna stood swiftly and disappeared down the hall. Ron looked incredulous.

"Care to fill us in?" he inquired after her retreating figure. "Blimey, hasn't changed much, has she?"

She reappeared a few minutes later with a large painting in an ornate frame. She presented it triumphantly to Hermione, who held it in her lap uncertainly.

"Er, thank you," she stammered.

"What do you see?" she asked, neutrally.

Hermione examined the painting. "Woods," she began, "with a little cabin at the- oh! It's Hagrid's cabin; it's the Forbidden Forest!"

Just then, she noticed a rustle in the depths of the tableau. She held her breath as a dark shape emerged from between the trees- a dark, skeletal horse, with leathery wings, beautiful and dreadful.

"Thestrals," she breathed.

Luna nodded.

"And, have you ever-"

"No," said Hermione softly. "I… not in this timeline. But I – in the other one – Fred…" She trailed off, paling. Ron too, looked slightly ill, but gripped her hand reassuringly.

"So I'm really… I really _was_ there." She took a sip of tea, and, concealing a grimace, placed the cup delicately back on its saucer.

"The funny thing is, though," she mused, "I can't remember anything after our seventh year- well, what would have been our seventh year."

"Maybe that's got something to do with how it… changed," suggested Ron.

"Hm," agreed Luna, "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I…" Hermione searched her memory. "We had found the last Horcrux. We were going to destroy it but they – the Death Eaters – they got there first. There was a battle, and…"

She shook her head, frustrated.

"It's no use, everything's so muddled!"

Luna stood again, beckoning to them from the doorway.

"Follow me."

From the hall, she led them down a set of stone steps and through the arched door at the bottom. The room was surprisingly warm; Hermione had expected it to be chilly, given its marble construction. She moved against the wall to allow Ron to follow her into the chamber. Taking up most of the floor was a large stone pool, like the base of an ornate fountain. Hermione held her breath. It was the largest Pensieve she had ever seen.

"My work gets a bit tricky to sort out, sometimes," offered Luna, by way of an explanation.

Hermione set to work, her wand against her temple, a look of deep concentration etched on her face. Slowly, after a minute or so, she pulled a long, silvery filament into the pool. Leaning forwards, they tumbled through the basin into the dark night.

They watched as a younger Hermione ran haphazardly through the foggy graveyard, curses ricocheting wildly in every direction. Ron reached out instinctively as she hurtled to the ground, tripped by a stray root, but of course, she couldn't see him. There, not twenty feet away, were Harry and Voldemort, locked in battle. A silver filament bound their wands together, pulsing with green and gold beads.

_It was then that she saw the eyes – those horrifying reptilian eyes – gleaming … and the thin, sickly lips, stretched into a hideous mock-grin across the pallid skull of a face, moving almost imperceptibly, whispering… whispering what? _

"Aevum retexo!" The green bead pulsed and shuddered as it forced its way down the golden filament. It was almost at the tip of Harry's wand, and then-

The world tilted on its axis. Hermione's entire field of vision was awash, was melting into itself.

"Protego!" She heard herself shriek amidst the din.

Ron, Luna and Hermione found themselves jerked disconcertingly from the memory, as the mossy ground solidified instantly to marble.

"That's it," Hermione whispered incredulously. "That spell- that's how it started."

Ron exhaled shakily, wide-eyed.

"Right. Now what?"

"We go back. We go back and we fix it. We stop Voldemort from casting the spell, and-"

Ron gaped.

"Stop _You-Know-Who_? You said it yourself, love, most evil man in the history of wizardkind. How are we supposed to stand half a chance against that?"

She didn't have a chance to answer.

"I don't think we'll have that option," said Luna, who had stayed quiet until then, deep in thought.

Hermione looked up, her face stony with realization.

"You're right," she whispered. "We can't. We can't go back and change it because it isn't really the past. That never really happened, at least not in this reality." She looked utterly defeated.

"No," agreed Luna. "But there may still be something we can do." Ron and Hermione looked up at her expectantly.

"Get your coats," she continued, "we're going to the Ministry."


End file.
